Tines
by PortiaKhalo
Summary: His hands smelled like grapefruits, and he was going to teach me a lesson. My entry for the For The Sake of OJWard Contest.


**For the Sake of OJward**

**Penname: **PortiaKhalo

**Title: **Tines

**Pairing:** Bella and Edward

**Disclaimer: **I do not own anything Twilight-related, nor do I claim to be an expert on any non-fiction elements of this story. It is kind of drippy though; you might need a napkin.

_A/N: Yellowglue's been spreading her love over these words since they were just a beginning and an end. Thank you, my pixiegirl._

Tines

This kitchen was painstakingly perfect. It was cluttered and lived in and delicately messy. It took me all four years of college to get it this way.

I was elbow deep in a sink full of bubbles, gingerly washing the vintage china I'd eaten my breakfast on, while I sang Regina Spektor to myself. It was my Doing the Dishes Song.

"_And then I lower in my whole mouth and take a gulp! And start to feel mortality surround me…"_

I smiled at my slippery plates and reached a bubbly hand out to gulp what was left of my orange juice.

I'd spent my time away from campus trolling flea markets, antique shops, garage sales, and rummage bins for each detailed artifact that made this room my home-base.

There were kitschy vases, milk glass bowls, and Fostoria crystal glasses, among other things. I cherished my modern-day Jadeite and Fiesta ware, and even harbored a good selection of Spiffy bowls from Target. Researching every fork, saucer, cup, or apron, I had learned the burdens of the women who came before me as I washed their long forgotten dishes.

My mother never cooked when I lived under her roof. Maybe that's why I longed for some form of matronly guilt to guide me toward adulthood. I needed this kitchen to feel alive. The warmth of the oven was my friend, and the whir of my kitchen-aid mixer meant my mind wasn't spinning. If I was cooking, I couldn't remember why it was that I knew Paula Deen and Nigella Lawson better than my own mother.

But when I took off my vintage apron and shook the flour from my hair, I was just me again. I was the daughter of a woman who'd never cared enough to care. Nothing she did ever came from her own two hands, except me. I wore the cloak of domesticity to protect me from the hypocrisy of my childhood.

Every Saturday, though, throughout my childhood, she bought the fanciest, pulp free orange juice the grocery store carried and carted it home with a dozen glazed donuts. I could make my own breakfasts from scratch now, but I kept the orange juice, always, in my icebox. It was our one happy memory.

My mother was throwing one of her parties. As a child our meals were always the cheap frozen, prepackaged things that rot your insides. Having a retired pro-baseball player for a husband changed things for her, though I never reaped the benefits.

Now, instead of the chemically altered meat products and syrup drenched canned fruit, Renee could afford extravagant catered parties. This particular shindig had a tropical theme, and Renee had reminded me with her every call that there would be a professional Mukimono artist there to entertain guests.

There was no way for me to avoid the party this time. So I threw on my newest old dress, one of a quintessential fifties build, fitted in the waist and full in the skirt, with a rambling blue floral pattern covering the entire thing, and made my way to her and Phil's apartment.

My mother's air kisses and too-strong perfume greeted me at the door. Phil tossed a nod my way, and that was more than I'd ever expect from him. I wasn't his child and he simply didn't care.

But_ he _was there. Renee pointed him out to me before she ran to welcome more properly precocious guests.

I watched from the entryway as he worked. His face was fully intent of on what his mind told his hands to do. It was a watermelon, or was a watermelon before its rind became scales and the liquid luscious fruit formed itself into a red dragon, flecked with warty black seeds.

His arms dripped with juice and he wiped them ungracefully on his backside before moving on to a large grapefruit. Hunched over the overbearing citrus, he poked and prodded and carved until it emerged a delicately scrolled crystal ball to set in the twist of the melon-dragon's tail.

What this man did was too good for Renee's monied minions. He was a zen master artist of vittles, and they would cram it all into their selfish mouths without even stopping to appreciate his effort.

His face was in deep thought, his peaceful mouth a relaxed echo of the serene green of his eyes. This red pepper was meant to be a tropical flower. With hands working quickly yet carefully, he wasn't even aware of the number of junior-league ladies sizing him up as he sculpted.

My mother made her presence known then, commenting on the out of date print of my dress.

"If I'd known you'd shop at thrift stores for the rest of your life, I would've saved my dresses! You could've had then let out at a tailor I'm sure." She scolded.

The Mukimono man quirked his eyebrow. He was listening and I was mortified.

"Anyway, baby, have you seen our carver? Isn't he something? I think that's a lizard he's working on, although I don't see how that's very tropical."

To my horror she proceeded to walk up to the table and snap off a good chuck of the end of the dragon's tail, daintily dabbing her mouth with a napkin as she walked away.

He looked at me, took in the embarrassed blush of my face, and smiled gently.

"I'm used to it." He said in my direction. "I don't usually have someone who actually admires my work at these parties."

I smiled in return. I was in awe of his humble acceptance of my mom's ignorance.

"She… she just has no idea what she's doing." I said, trying to apologize for Renee anyway.

"Thank you." He said, and reached into his back pocket to pull out a card.

"I work out of my own kitchen most of the time, but if you'd ever like some lessons or anything, give me a call."

I took the card and slid it into the very functional pocket of my thrift store ensemble.

His name was Edward and his hands smelled like grapefruits.

That night I dreamed of lemon drops.

My Mother tossed the box at me and I was so disappointed. In my sleep state I was so, so thirsty, and the lemon candy would do nothing but make my parched mouth even more pinched. Shockingly, though, when I opened the box and poured the candies into my lap they plumped into real, fragrant, juicy citrus.

The silhouetted trees covering my peasant skirt brightened and blossomed the most verdant leaves, and reached out to the fruit in my lap like a mother reaches for her blessed child.

Out of the corner of my eye I spotted Edward, and suddenly there was a heavenly glass of freshly made lemonade in my hands. I drank and drank until I could've floated, had I dreamed it so, and stared, awestruck, as my feet became roots that traveled with me.

I called him the next day to see if he could teach me to sculpt groceries into art. He agreed, and was free that very afternoon.

He brought cantaloupe, tart green apples, and shiny, shiny lemons.

Of course, I cut myself.

While his elegant hands were busy transforming the cantaloupe into a lotus blossom, I was stubbornly attempting the formation of a simple lemon cup. Under the weight of the blade in my hand, my fingertip burst like the teeniest volcano when I failed to shift my digit out of its way. My rusty blood mixed with the acidic lemon juice and I cursed under my breath.

"Shit." I whispered, shaking my hand violently.

My poor heart was crushed. It was foolish of me to think that my dream could quench anything in reality. I'd felt on the cusp of something healing and exciting when I woke. Now I just wanted to hide in my bed.

I was seeping sadness and regretting my decision to have him come over when he hissed his affection toward my split finger. Wiping his hands on my hand-embroidered dish towel, he reached into his back pocket.

_Was he going to pay me for his troubles? Why did I suddenly care what pictures and protections he carried there?_

But it was none of that. It was a band-aid.

"Hold out your finger, Miss Bella." He said gently.

I did, and he smoothed the small bandage over the stinging wound, the warmth of his fingers all but alleviating the pain as the pressure from the strip of medicinal plastic finished the job.

"I work in a rather bloody field." He joked, rotating his hands slowly in the beams of light bouncing around the kitchen until I could see a maze of nicks and cuts on his skin.

"The flesh of the fruit is pliant." He explained, whispering his fingers over my injured one and it's jealous sisters. "But the blade is always, first and foremost, a weapon. Be careful, Bella."

My cheeks flushed, like a tomato left too long in the sun, and I watched as his teeth bit into his bottom lip, a dangerous weapon indeed.

~~~oo~~~

I practiced more often at home after that. Every day I set to work as soon as my real work finished. Leaving the old and borrowed volumes of my library job behind to form something completely new from the earth's gifts was invigorating. It sparked places in my mind long squashed with mother-made muck.

Eventually, in between the walls of my shabby chic kitchen, I scraped and scooped a series of grapefruits until their rinds looked like al fresco henna.

Then I called Edward, and pulled out the most perfect grapefruit spoons to eat my masterpieces with. I had stumbled upon them in a lowly drawer at the very back of the antique shop I haunted.

After feeling a true calling to go into the shop, I was melancholy and moping in the corner. I'd found nothing worth bringing home, and was beginning to realize these old trinkets wouldn't fill the void of self that I'd left uncultivated.

I stretched out my legs where I sat and my arm bumped a small cabinet. Inside were my spoons, tarnished and spiky, like an old woman who knew too much. I hugged them to my chest and paid in cash.

They'd never punctured an actual grapefruit until today.

When Edward was seated at the table, I chose two grapefruits, and gathered a couple of my favorite spoons and one small knife.

There was something ignited when our fingers brushed across the slender slice of metal. There was freedom in this simple snack. Without any expectations, I was giddy to just be giving.

He watched with a silly grin on his face as I carefully cut each fruit in half, then traced a circle deep into the space between the flesh and the peel. Perfect little triangles formed around each bite of citrus, and I passed the Master Sculptor across from me his two halves. He thanked me for both, his grin spreading to a full smile.

"These are lovely spoons, Bella." He said, trying to hold fruit in his mouth as he laughed softly.

"Thank you. You are the first person to use them." My heart soared. I knew they were just spoons, but I was so pleased he appreciated them.

But to my horror, when he had scoured out all of the angled segments I'd made for him, he pushed his chair back with a loud screech against my tile. Walking to the counter, he studied the remaining four grapefruits that I'd spent multiple hours honing into artwork. He chose the third from the left and sat back down at the table, the juicy orb in his gorgeous hand.

"Do you want me to cut that one for you?" I asked innocently.

He just looked at me and pushed his thumb into my masterpiece, his eyes never leaving mine, except to follow my mouth as it fell open.

Slowly, with an ever present smirk, he peeled the intricate tapestry off the fruit. I had to cover my eyes toward the end when the last piece fell to the table.

"Bella?" He questioned.

"Sometimes, it's just easier if you take its fancy clothes off."

He chuckled at my continuously shocked expression and leaned across the table.

"Here." He pushed a glistening grapefruit bite past my lips.

"You know, your face is going to freeze that way if you don't close your mouth."

His eyebrow quirked as my face blossomed pink and I slowly shut my teeth around the naked offering he'd placed there.

After that day there was never any guilt in eating our art, and that's why it was beautiful. In the end, it had to end with devouring whatever we offered each other.

~~~oo~~~

My sleepy-time thoughts were an explosion of color; the sharpened yellow of butter, the softened coral of salmon, the red of blood plumped lips. I smoothed my hands over the luminescent skin of a rainbow's worth of the very fruits Edward had unwrapped for me. Over and over I felt the pores and bumps rub against my palms. In my dream I closed my eyes and a dizzy, spinning, tickly wave ripped through my body. I opened my dreamy eyes and my hands were running slow circles through Edward hair. His smell overwhelmed me and I woke with a burning, achey heart, and other organs that refused to be excluded.

It was his idea to share an actual meal.

It was my plan to make him breakfast at my house. After all, that was where I was most comfortable. I couldn't imagine a more intimate place that the cove near my oven; warm and toasty. Our menu, which I'd been organizing for a week, included fruit salad, homemade waffles, and hand-seasoned chicken sausage.

Edward was adamant that he come over to help me. I was flabbergastedly flustered.

While I loved feeding others from my kitchen, I had not yet come to accept help in said kitchen without freaking out. In my mind, everything had an order: peel the oranges, flip the patties, turn around, plug in waffle iron… It was a dance I was perfectly fine doing alone.

I wanted Edward in my kitchen, in my space. My hands were still unsteady though.

Edward was halving purple grapes and I was supposed to be de-skinning the blood oranges. The pit kept forcing itself under my fingernails. I had to pick it out between each chunk of peel, and it was beginning to hurt. Logically I knew it was just an orange, but it was ruining everything.

When I felt tears start to prickle my eyes, Edward sighed and lowered his knife.

Walking behind me, he pulled the burnt-colored globe from my fingers and held it near my cheekbone. The smell of his skin, that close to my olfactory factory was intoxicating. He moved his mouth to speak into my right ear, and paused.

I shifted toward his face, unsure where this was going, considering he was still holding a fruit, and watched him sink his teeth into the bitter peel.

"You can be rough with this one." He whispered.

"It is a _blood_ orange after all. It expects and enjoys the punishment." I could feel, inside my ear, as his tongue licked across his teeth.

He rested his orange-scented lips effervescently against my hair, and then resumed cutting grapes.

When I stood, still wantonly wrapped in his spell, he smacked his left hand twice against the cabinet. The small door wasn't two inches from my rear-end.

I jumped, and cackled darkly, covering my mouth at my unladylike outburst.

"Chop chop, Bella."

With the fruit all nicely cozy in the fridge, Edward declared himself the Waffle King and plugged in the iron to pre-heat.

I was grinding the spices for the sausage in a mortar and pestle: fennel, sage, crushed red-pepper, and sea-salt. It was not a delicate task, and I was self conscious of the way my body involuntarily jiggled. Still, I needed them pulverized just so.

I licked my pinky finger to taste the mixture, checking for balance. It asked for more fennel, which I promptly pushed off the counter. The small canister rolled under the cabinets, and I bent myself in half to fetch it.

From behind me I heard a strangled cry and my ears caught fire with embarrassment. I smoothed the back of my skirt, hoping with all my heart I hadn't given Edward my moon for free. But when I worked up the nerve to turn and face him, he was clutching his hand to his chest in pain.

"Ummm, it's definitely hot enough." He tried to snark, but it hurt to much.

"Oh… Let me see it, Edward." I begged.

He opened his hand like a timid flower, and the inside of his index finger was already beginning to blister. He hissed when I moved to touch it, and without thinking, I moved his finger to my mouth, licking and sucking lightly on the burn.

"B… ahhh." He bit his lips and slapped his other hand on the counter a safe distance from the waffle maker.

I lapped more softly and he pulled in a slow, deep breath.

"Bella…" He whispered.

He tasted so good, but I stopped long enough to look into his eyes. They were blazing with something I never seen before.

"I'm sorry." I said timidly.

He rubbed the back of his wounded hand against my cheek and shook his head.

"I keep aloe vera in the icebox. Let me put some on the blister, okay?"

He nodded his head and smiled through the sting. I squirted a long line of cool green gel onto his finger. He flinched, the cold balm such a contrast to the burning sensation. Smearing it slowly over his wound, I slicked his entire finger with the pokey plants amazing medicine. Blowing lightly on the wetness, I smiled up into his face.

"You sit down and have some fruit. I'll finish the rest." I coaxed.

"I'm fine, Bella, really. Let me help you."

"No, no, no. Mrs. Waffler is a fickle mistress. " I mocked. "She needs a gentle touch."

I couldn't keep a straight face, but he was already serving himself fruit salad, so it didn't matter. I slipped so effortlessly into my private breakfast-ballet routine; I almost forgot he was there. When I became too indulgent in the dance, his quiet snicker would paint my cheeks.

I set everything on the table when I was done, pressing the backs of my hands to my cheeks to see if they had blistered as well from all the blushing.

With his kaleidoscope of fruit, waffles, and sausage, I offered him my sacred orange juice. He looked at me like I was a traitor, like I had purposefully sabotaged this fancy finger-made breakfast by opening my fridge.

"What? This is what I always drink. Its name brand and pulp free." I smiled and shook the container but his frown was ever-present.

"I'll just stick with water, thanks. Do you have any lemon?"

"Yes. I keep them on hand to freshen the disposal after a heavy cooking session."

He shook his head minutely at the thought and took the wedge of bitter fruit from my hand.

Holding his opposite palm over the glass he squeeze the lemon letting all it's bits and juice fall into his waiting hand before opening his fingers just a smidgen to let the sour liquid fall into his glass while keeping the seeds contained. He was extra vigilant to keep the liquid away from his waffling boo-boo.

I kept honing my skills and Edward kept refusing my orange juice when he came to check on me. He was always impressed with my work, regardless of where the produce originated: tree, vine, soil, pot. But his glare for my only pleasant memory of my Mother always hurt my pride.

~~~oo~~~

I was being tested this week. Not for a grade, not really, but for the respect and pride of Edward.

He was coming over to see everything that he'd taught me recreated, with my own touches thrown in as well.

When I woke up, I forgot I'd left my appropriately cluttered countertops covered in dishes and peels from my late night cram session. I would have to empty and load the dishwasher, clean the counters, and take all the fruity skins out to the compost pile before I could even consider getting things ready for Edward.

I called him in a panic, afraid of his disappointment, and even more scared that if I failed this friendly test today, there would be nothing left to keep us occupied. We'd never done anything but create and destroy the beautiful bounty we collected.

He came over anyway, and watched, with his elbow on the counter, long fingers resting on his lips, as I wrestled the dirty dishes into the dishwasher.

Bending over again and again, I couldn't help but hope that what I had to offer was worth molding into something he could devour one day. My face heated and I caught him smirking under his digits.

As I stuffed the last of the spoons and forks into their basket, he began explaining to me the tradition of Celtic love spoons. I listened, spinning silverware under the faucet, then bunching it together in my hand, a metallic bouquet, to fit it in its holder.

"So that's where the term spooning came from." He said. I, however, was holding a fork. I looked from my hand to him, trying not to laugh but failing miserably.

"What? What has you giggling?"

"Spooning leads to forking." I said, gasping with cackles. "I read it once, on a dish towel."

"Sassy! That's some dish towel." He said, letting his eyes trail down to my damp apron and back up to my flushed face.

"You know what? Fuck those dishes. How's that for a dish towel?" He was urgent to get some point across, suddenly.

"Ummm… Counter-productive?" I teased.

"Nevermind. Just… leave them there, you've passed your fruit-laden final exam, Miss Bella. Now let's go out."

I was expecting a restaurant, but we walked through the large double doors of a swanky hotel. Edward marched us up to the counter, his burned finger touching my teeny cut in a healing embrace of hands.

"Hi, may I speak with Jasper please? I have a favor to call in. Tell him it's Edward Cullen." He pasted on a dazzling smile as a tall, dirty-blonde man walked from the back room.

"Well, hello Mr. Cullen! If you're here for breakfast please make your way to the dining room. I take it your friend will be joining you?" He asked with a wicked raised eyebrow.

"Yes, Jasper, this is Bella Swan. She is… something of an understudy to my strange profession. I brought her here to show her where my best work is done." He explained.

I just smiled my be-a-good-girl smile and batted my lashes. I was an expert at playing along; Renee had trained me well.

"Edward, dude, the food is already free. Quit showing off and go eat already." Jasper laughed, nudging Edward with his elbow.

They gave each other a stylish knuckle bump and Edward offered his arm as we made our way to the most important meal of the day.

We were seated at a white linen covered table in the quaint dining area.

"I usually set up over there near the kitchen." He pointed behind my head and I turned to survey his domain. When I faced him again he was closely inspecting his fork.

I was immediately worried that it was dirty, which led me down a speedy and anxious path about the kind of standards Edward held, but he laid it down again with a curt nod of his head.

"This will be perfect." He said, grinning like a fool.

He flagged down the waiter and asked if, before he took our breakfast order, he would bring us half a dozen naval oranges, a steak knife, and two large glasses. The young man scurried off to retrieve the fruit while Edward tapped his fingers together like a fidgety steeple.

With orange in hand, I watched as he mutilated each one. Splicing it with his knife, he then gouged the tines of his highly regarded fork into the fruit, twisting and turning the tiny daggers while the orange gave up its gold into a glass.

After every half had given him its everything, he forced its floppy lips in the opposite direction of squeezed the last of the juice directly into his open mouth. Our glasses were full to the brim, and with one last squish, a droplet of orange nectar dripped down his chin. The tip of my tongue shot out in vain, wanting to be its net. I had to make do with licking my bottom lip as I stared at him. He captured it on the pad of his thumb just before the drop succumbed to gravity and soiled his shirt.

That familiar fire in his eyes that we'd ignited in my kitchen shot toward me again when he caught me sucking my lip into my teeth. He slurped the drop off his thumb, never removing his sight from mine.

~~~oo~~~

I awoke the next morning with my fingers searching the left side of my chest. I was sure, somewhere, that the faded evidence of the three prongs I'd dreamed of would appear.

There'd been a giant fork with a jumble if letters etched into its handle, E, R, S, D, C. It made no sense, but I ran my fingers over them all anyway, stretching on tiptoes to swipe against the high-up E. Then, like Humpty Dumpty, they all tumbled down at my feet. Distraught, I tried to put them back in the order they'd appeared, but the B and the C were stuck together. I picked them up, bracing them against my middle as I would a stubborn jar of jam and twisted. When I looked in my hands, there was a tiny fork, shrimpy in size, and a terrible ache in my chest.

The little silverware seized my hand and pressed it's teeth into my heart. The splintering pain broke into smaller pieces and the rest brushed off, like crumbly paint.

~~~oo~~~

He invited me to his house for lunch. I brought fancy peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, meaning everything in them was homemade. I'd used strawberries from the Farmers' Market to make strawberry-black pepper jam. I brought a bag of sweet potato chips and a jar of the pickles I'd put away last season as well.

He'd said he was going to teach me a lesson. I wasn't sure what exactly that implied, but I'd never been such an eager learner.

I brought my spunkiest apron with me to find out.

_Ruffles had to help somehow, right?_

He was juggling balls when I walked in. On second glance, they weren't balls, but various sunshine-hued citrus.

"Hi." I said, suddenly bashful about the ballerina-esque volume of my apron's skirt.

His eyes slowly meandered down to my hips, a slight smirk pulling at his lips.

"Nice apron, Bellerina."

I did a small twirl to appease him and the juggling stopped abruptly.

"Ahem. Now. You are here, Miss Bella, to learn to make a proper glass of orange juice. Are you ready for your history lesson?"

I took a seat at his kitchen dinette and pretended to take notes as he wove his tale for me.

"Orange juice can't be orange juice without the pulp." He started. "To drink something pulp free takes all the fun out of it! You have to have the meat, the stuff that gets caught in your teeth, to remind you the fruit came from a tree." He waved his arms like liturgical tree branches and I stifled a giggle.

"Seriously Bella, to have the ability to drink something as sacred as orange juice every day is ridiculous. It's winters gift!" He was so wrapped up in his own reasoning he didn't see my eyes undressing him.

"During World War II the only thing some of the soldiers got for Christmas was a warm beer and a fresh orange. The home-sickness they felt was washed away, if only for a moment, by a bright, cleansing bite into those succulent orbs. There were people in the states that couldn't afford to give their children anything else. And one ripe, fragrant orange was enough to uphold the spirit of St. Nicholas and push away the winter blues." He slowed his words and finally looked at me just as I made it to his feet. They were bare and strong and his toes twitched under my gaze.

I smiled up at him and showed him my paper. It said: "When does my lesson start, Mr. Cullen?"

"Come here, Bella." He said, waving me to him furiously. "Just…come here."

I stood and walked to him and he pulled me into a tight hug.

"You make me want to build a palace of cherries and feed them to you one by one." He confessed as he breathed me in at my crown.

"Teach me, please. I need to know." I said to his collar. It would make it to his ears, and hopefully his heart, eventually.

He spun me around the face the counter where a very basic, old-fashioned, electric juicer sat. His counter was littered with oranges, dreamy pamplemousse, and jewel-toned limes.

He cut everything into halves, or near halves. His strokes were savage compared to the precise touch he used during his work. His hands were drippy, and much to my delight he wiped them on the backs of his jeans like he had the first time I'd seen him. He turned his head and cracked a smile at me knowingly and my face exploded in a telltale semi-circle.

With his hands dry, but still sticky-sweet, he reached one out for me and pulled me in front of him.

"Choose your first victim, please." He said.

I, without conscious thought, chose a grapefruit.

"Now put it on the bumpy part, right there, and I'll turn the machine on." He instructed.

I could feel the vibration of each ridge and it pulsated through the fruit, rendering its nectar into the bowl and consequently, down my elbow. I annihilated all the cut-up domes until a bunch of weebly-wobbly bowls spilled onto the floor.

My apron was doing no good, and Edward was thrilled.

"Just take it off, Silly Bella." He said.

I was twisting and turning, trying to press my dripping arms into a safe place on my apron. There was a quiet slip of fabric at my waist, and the the smallest tingly pull of a baby-hair on the back of my neck.

"Wipe them on your jeans. They're washable. So are you." He whispered hoarsely.

My apron was in a puddle on the floor and my arms were tucked softly behind my back, his hands binding my wrists like iron feathers, airy but heavily present.

He kissed the back of my neck where the knot of my kitchen costume had pressed since we began. "I'm sorry I pulled your hair…" He chanted into my ear.

I let my head fall back on his shoulder, and rotated my hands in his to smear the tacky juice on my backside. He released my hands at my hips and wrapped his arm around my chest in a backward bear hug. I brought mine up, perpendicular to his and brushed my fingers through the soft hair on his arms.

"Will you sit with me outside?" He asked.

"Yes…" I could barely find my voice. The safety deposit box of my life had been unlocked, and the sunshine outside blinded me.

"Let me get our lunch." I managed.

I side-stepped passed him, letting him catch my fingers in his as I grabbed my reusable grocery bag of goodies. He held my hand as he used his other to pour two tall glasses of marvelously murky liquid straight from the juicer.

When he'd given me enough time on his patio to take in the sunset, our evening, and most of my sandwich, he presented me with a giant bag of oranges.

"I want you to have these." He said.

"Alright?" I took the bag from him and sat it where the fishnet bag brushed the outside of my ankle.

"I have to be away next week, all week, for work. Will you use them everyday? For me?" He asked, implying more that he actually said.

"You want me to carve everyday while you're gone? To practice or just…"

"No. No, I just want to know that your hands are holding these beautiful oranges. I… need to make sure that what we've started here, not just the carving or the juicing, but the bigger stuff too, is preserved until I get back."

I smiled with all my teeth taking imaginary bows along my gum line. Reaching into the bag at my feet, I pulled out the first fruit my fingerprints impressed and set it on the table.

"Let's start now, then." I said.

I brought it to my lips and bit into the zesty outside, pushing the pit off my teeth with my tongue.

"And for my second trick…" I joked as I removed the peel all in one piece, creating a perfect spiral of peel, like a snake growing into newer digs.

"Share this with me, Edward." I broke the citrus in half and pushed it into his palm.

"Thank you, Bella." He bit into the still connected pieces, not separating even one. "I was afraid that I wouldn't be able to pull you back to me when I returned. This was the only thing I could think of."

"You did good." I said, gathering up his fingers into mine across the wicker table. "So where are you headed?" I asked when we'd finished our communion of sorts.

"Northern California. I have a client who moved out there a few years ago to start a wedding planning business."

"Oh fun! So you create centerpieces for the reception?" I asked.

"Yes, but Laurent has me booked for the whole week leading up to the wedding. I'm doing something for the bridal party and the groomsmen at their parties, making a tower, I think, for the wedding shower, then centerpieces for the rehearsal and the reception."

"Wow. That a lot of produce!" I laughed.

"They're vegetarians." He chuckled.

~~~oo~~~

I'd always loved living in Seattle. It was big enough for me to get lost amongst the details, but still close enough to my home of Forks, Washington that I felt like a small-town girl.

When I moved here the only things I knew for sure were that it would probably smell like coffee most everywhere, and that I could finally stop hiding my love for 90s grunge music. It was a great soundtrack for ironing.

But even though I loved the smell of those dark roasted beans, I'd always depended on my heirloom orange juice to wake me instead. It felt closer to the sun.

This morning, however, it wasn't working. Edward was away for work and I missed the way he smelled. I missed being pushed, constantly, out of my comfort zone of stationary acceptance.

I hadn't had the heart, yet, to actually eat any of the oranges he'd left me. But I held them to my nose constantly, sniffing their tangy aroma and missing Edward terribly.

~~~oo~~~

There was an email from Edward waiting in my inbox when I got home.

_Miss Bella,_

_You would not believe the things these people are asking me to create. They are so vulgar and out of my element I can't even type the words! I have successfully redirected the bridesmaids towards unicorns, with very large horns, instead of their original concept._

_Then, after Laurent told me of the sports themed bachelor party, the best man said I should just draw the ball lines on with a sharpie! _

_I am not enjoying myself, as you can fair see, as much as I normally would during such an extravagant job._

_I am certain, with no hesitation, that it's because you are not near._

_Make me something soon,_

_Edward_

I immediately went to the kitchen and clutched my orange-bag-baby to me tightly.

Giggling to myself, I shuffled through my junk drawer until I found a permanent marker. I was on a mission to make Edward smile.

Carefully balancing four oranges on my countertop, I pulled a chair over and plopped myself into it. Deciding instead to sit on my knees, I tucked them under me and pulled my hair into a high bun.

Funny faces flowed from my pen onto the taut oranges. Googly-eyed monsters, and tongue-lolling goofballs, and Amy Winehouse-y creatures appeared. Thinking then about the accessories of a Mr. Potato Head, I gathered a handful of toothpicks and gave all my citrus-circus-freaks crazy hairdos.

I snapped a picture with my phone's camera and sent it to Edward.

Pacing the kitchen anxiously, I almost dropped my phone when it chimed an incoming picture. There was Edward, on the screen, with an orange peel protruding out of his grin like orange teeth. I laughed and kissed his far-away face, trying to push the hair from his eyes like it would do any good all the way from Seattle. He became my wallpaper in a heartbeat.

For the next three days, I squeezed a fresh glass of orange juice with every meal. The ladies at the library thought I'd lost my marbles, but it was worth it when Edward texted me pictures of him doing the same thing.

There'd been an email from him late every night too. I'd curl up in my squishiest arm chair and read it over and over until I was almost late for work each morning. His stories about the bride's antics and Laurent's crazy hair were the sunshine I craved, and the carton of orange juice in my refrigerator expired, still half full.

Two days before he was set to return to Seattle, I sat drinking orange blossom tea from a gloriously dainty teacup. Hand-painted with a madly intricate, floral chintz, they made the tea inside them feel even more calming. I liked to imagine they'd come from a long lost grandmother or an eccentric aunt.

They hadn't. I had no inheritance in the way of physical things, only soured memories and spoiled orange juice. I'd never used them as a set, there were but two. I was hoping that would change soon though, and that Edward's fingers weren't too big to fit through the handles.

The shock of an empty inbox was just settling over my heart when my phone rang, the screen showing Edward's cellphone number. I was jolted out of my sadness and answered the phone in a stunned whisper.

"Hello?" I whispered.

"Bella? Are you alright? What happened?" He was upset as well.

"Nothing! Except there wasn't an email and… I was worried." I chewed my lip to atone my confession.

"Oh! There was no email because I thought what I wanted to tell you would be better spoken over the phone." He answered.

"What is it?" I was breathless and my heart pounded in my ears.

"There's this place that I want to go tomorrow. I know I'm due back in Seattle, but I really feel like I need to make one more stop." He admitted. The tears were filling the space behind my eyes. All my missing was for nothing.

"Okay." I said, trying not to sniff into the phone.

"Are you crying, Bella? Oh no! Just listen, okay? I want you to come with me to this place. I would tell you where, but it would ruin the surprise. I've booked you a refundable ticket for a flight to Riverside, California tomorrow afternoon."

I gasped.

"I know this is strange, but I also know how much you'll love where I want to take you. Please come Bella. Get on the plane. I've missed you." He said all in one breath.

"Me too."

"Good." He laughed softly over the satellites.

"I… I don't know, Edward. What about work?" I asked.

"Call in sick. I promise to make it worth missing a day of story-time shenanigans at the library."

"Alright. But what do I pack? This is so not me, flying with no plans and no final destination." I was so nervously excited, my legs jumped up and down of their own volition.

"Hmmm… You need a sun hat, bigger than big, and we'll need a picnic basket. Does that sound okay?"

"Yes!" I nearly shouted. He belly laughed into my ear and I moved the phone away from my mouth so I could squeal and prance around the kitchen.

"Well then, Bella, I'll see you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow." I echoed, and hung up the phone.

I still wasn't completely convinced this was a good idea, but a weekend getaway to see him, if only to smell the citrus scent ever present on his skin, would be better than trying to recreate it at home.

Work was reached with only seconds to spare, during which I culled all my acting skills into a series of loud, grotesque coughing fits. They must have worked, because after my fourth round of pretend-I-swallowed-a-bug, by supervisor, Mrs. Cope, asked if maybe I should take the rest of the day off.

"Are you sure? I don't want to leave you short handed." I pleaded with innocent eyes.

"Yes, honey, I'm sure. No one will be over taxed if you can't make it in tomorrow either." She said, trying to hide her disgust with the noises that I kept spewing.

This was working out better than I thought.

"Maybe I'll go to the doctor tomorrow then, and be back the day after…" I let forth one final act in my theatre de phlegm performance. She all but curled her lip up as she watched me with a horrified face. I had to make that one extra long just to keep from laughing. "…That." I finished.

"Yes, yes, dear. That's fine. Now please go home before you contaminate the entire library!"

I rushed from the building as quickly as I could and went straight to my most beloved flea market. It was an hour till closing time.

Searching for the perfect used picnic basket, I felt a twinge of guilt over my fibs from work.

_Would this all be worth it?_

I stumbled upon a stall containing a jumbled mass of baskets. Picking my way through, I found the one I'd had in mind for Edward's secret excursion. The flaps on both sides lifted to 90 degrees angles, the handles were sturdy, and there were even a few slots for silverware along the inside.

As I walked to the gypsy-like lady working the booth, something else caught my eye.

It was a juicer, in the shape of a frog, where the fruit sacrificed itself on the reptile's sombrero. It was such a funny little thing that I laughed to myself. This caused the billowy-skirted woman to glance my way. Her stern frown was soon replaced with a small smile, and when I pulled out my camera she waved me on to take a picture of the little creature.

I immediately sent it to Edward, telling him I'd found a basket too. I could hardly wait to see his grin again with my own eyes.

Scurrying like a squirrel, I made my way home to hunt for my sunhat. I felt like a dog digging up my favorite bone, but unsure exactly where he'd buried it. My room had never been such a mess of clothes and shoes and closet-vomit. Sweating and huffing I suddenly remembered exactly where it was.

My ladder was in my laundry room, so I hauled my Bridge to Terabithia back to my room with me and climbed up cautiously.

There, in a round hat box, was my gigantic sunhat, along with a menagerie of French inspired scarves and a jar of lavender buds.

"Ah Ha!" I shouted. "I've got you now!" I plunked the contraption on my head, climbed back down my ladder, and proceeded to go take a shower. I almost forgot to take the stupid hat off before I stepped under the hot streaming water, but the whoosh over my shower curtain blew it off my head.

_I am losing my mind for this man, I swear,_ I thought. And that was just fine.

~~~oo~~~

The stewardess came by for the second time with the drink cart and asked me if I'd decided yet what I wanted.

Taking a deep breath, I requested an orange juice. Once she'd rolled away I let the air in my lungs out slowly through an O of lipsticked lips. I knew it would never be the same. Even the memory now, of donuts and orange juice with my Mom seemed nostalgically tarnished. I smiled at myself child-like self, and the woman who brought my beverage, before taking a small sip.

It was too bitter. I took a bigger drink. Thick, sugary sweetness flowed down my throat. This so-called juice left a strange film on my front teeth that I couldn't suck off with my tongue. The phantom flavor of a trail of teardrop bubbled pulp whispered against my taste buds.

I'd be with him soon enough.

Getting off the plane, I felt silly that I'd packed so little when I was so far from home.

I texted Edward to tell him I'd arrived hoping with all my him-sick-heart that he'd say something funny or sweet and make these nerves that afflicted me settle back down. But he only responded with the address of where I was to meet him.

My face burned and my fingers shook, reading the numbers on the screen. I needed his words right now, or even just singular letters meant to be words… ily.

I arranged for a taxi to take me to our meeting place. The driver was polite enough, but gave me no indication of where it was I was heading. The surprise remained intact for the entire ride, and my excitement over seeing Edward slowly increased in proportion to his proposed nearness.

"Ma'am?" I looked up from where I'd been gazing out the left window. "We're here, Ma'am. This is the address you gave me."

"Thank you!" I nearly vaulted out of the cab without paying him, but remembered just as my she touched the ground.

There was a sign to my right announcing that I'd found myself at the California Citrus State Historic Park. I all but skipped my way to the ticket counter, giggles and butterflies threatening to bubble over my insides and out my lips. Edward had already paid my entrance fee.

He was here.

I pulled on my sunhat and started walking.

The entire park was like Steinbeck's worst nightmare. The lush smells of citrus filled the air and the booming success of one of the states most famous industries ricocheted off the walls.

Edward was being elusive. I put my blinders on as I sped through the museum's history exhibit, and checked the gazebo and the picnic area with no success. Sitting down at a picnic table, I pulled the enormous flaps of my hat down around my face. It was supposed to help me think, but really, it just made me hot. Pulling it off my damp hair to fan my face, I spotted a small orchard of trees in the distance.

My heart bumped my bosom and I bounded toward them as quickly as I could manage, the empty basket brushing my leg as I held down my hat with my other hand.

He was there, of course, with his back to me. He'd been there long enough that a wet trail of sweat ran down his back, making his shirt almost translucent. He was rolling a small orange in his hand.

The grove was magnificent. The trees were heavy with fruit and the smell was what every candle company in existence aimed to capture, but never came close. It looked as if a colony of faeries could live there quite happily. The bright sun sparkled down through the leaves. The air was filled with the scent of tart, dream-sickle ice cream, and I missed the smell of Edward's hands even more acutely.

I let mine dangle at my side nearest him and hoped he would take up the call. He did. He captured my fingers and pulled them up to his lips, kissing the microscopic ridges that held my identity softly. He plunked the orange into his pocket.

Without saying a word, we greeted each other with equally shining faces.

He tugged my arm gently and proceeded to lay down on the soft earth beneath the trees. I bent to my knees, taking off my goofy hat and shaking my salty hair out before joining him.

"Nice hat." He said.

"I don't think it's quite big enough, actually." I teased.

"No, you're right. You only caused a minor eclipse when you entered the park. I expected more from you, Bella." He admonished me playfully.

I laughed softly, finally feeling myself calm for the first time in almost a week.

Then he pulled out his swiss army knife and everything was all aflutter again.

"You should always be prepared, Miss Bella." He said, turning his head to mine, my hair trying desperately to make beautiful chocolate-caramel babies with his across the soft ground.

"This orange is contraband." His words were devilish. He licked his blood orange lips, knowing I watched hopelessly.

When I realized what he'd said I was horrified.

"You picked one?" I couldn't believe he'd do such a thing. These trees were treasures not meant to be pirated. I pushed myself to my elbows and scooted further from his long body.

"No no no, it was on the ground!" He winked at me. "I think we're technically safe, don't you?"

I nodded through my cranky face and was struck dumb yet again when he squeezed the globe in his capable hand. My chest tightened as he cut it in half.

I lowered myself back to the dirt, my arms too quivery to support me.

With anime eyes, I stared as he leaned over me where I was sprawled.

"Open for me." He said.

My mouth popped open comically, and he drip dropped bittersweet juice onto my waiting tongue.

It was a magic elixir, that when paired with the light specked through the trees above me, made my eyes sting with tears.

I looked up at Edward, like a flower finding it's sun. He had, all along, tied me to these fruits, these trees. I was, through his guidance and stubborn refusal, a part of the earth that blessed these trees. With him, there in the park, I knew for the first time that I was grown.

"Bella, what is it?" He asked, concerned.

I laughed like a mad woman and pulled him down to me by his handsome ears.

"Just this." I said, and pushed my mouth to his.

He met me there, and cupped my head tenderly in his palms, our lips marrying the nectar of our communion orange back together.

When we broke apart, a squeal erupted from my happy face, and he laughed as his mouth attached itself to mine again. He rolled us in the soil of the grove, Jack and Jill in reverse, with only a minor bump of my head to complete the story.

With a twinkle in his eye he scurried up to find my hat, parading back to where I lay under a tree with the monstrosity on his head. I cackled as he lay down facing me, hiding us under the wide brim, and hummed my acceptance when our mouth music continued.

I opened my eyes to see his looking back at me. We were the colors of the earth, green and brown, and sun-kissed cheeks. The light filtering in through the fine weave of the hat, made us seem to sparkle, and my whole body was a fruit, ripe with wanting and expectation, ready and willing to be cut open and consumed.

~~~oo~~~

It was Christmas morning and I didn't want to leave Edward's bed. But he was stubborn as a stallion, insisting that we go back to my place for breakfast. When I whined and tried to pull him back under the covers, he seemed very concerned that Santa's feelings would be hurt if I didn't look at what he'd left for me under my tree.

I wasn't expecting the intoxicating smell pouring from my apartment when I stepped in. It was scrumptious, like lemon bars and tangerines exploding in my senses.

On every surface in the apartment sat fuzzy, red stockings. Their toes were all uniformly bulbous, and I knew I was close to crying already.

"There's one orange in every stocking for every Christmas we weren't together. And one for as many Christmases from now on as I could buy, in orange-form, at the grocery store." He rubbed the back of his neck nervously and I laced my fingers there, pushing against him, demanding embrace.

The tears rolled down my face and he squeezed me until I squeaked.

"Merry Christmas, Bella." He wished, kissing my cheeks and my damp eyelashes, so so softly. "Now go look under the tree! Santa worked very hard to make sure you were taken off the Naughty List this year."

"Oh really?" I teased. "I didn't know I'd been naughty."

"I did!" he tattle-told, goosing my back pocket, and startling me toward the tree.

There were two oddly shaped packages underneath, both wrapped with origami-like expertise. I ripped into the bigger one first and came out holding an exact replica of the frog juicer I'd seen at the flea market.

"How did you get this!" I shouted in glee. "I saw the old woman stalking behind me buy it as soon as I snapped that picture for you!" I exclaimed.

"It's my Mom's." He said, squatting down next to me, his legs bending to hug me between his knees.

"She's always had it, but never uses it. So, I asked her if I could let you borrow it permanently and she agreed."

I kissed him hard on the mouth one, two, three, four, five times and held his cheeks in my hands.

Through clenched teeth, in my best, Great-Aunt-Edna voice, I said, "You are so cute!"

He laughed and handed me the smaller parcel that Mr. Claus had deemed appropriate that year. This time, I took my time unwrapping it. It was so small, it would've been a shame to rush it. From a small, rectangular box tumbled a shimmery, shiny fork.

"It's from the hotel." He said, tucking my hair behind my right ear. "Turn it over."

I did, and it was all over for me. This was everything, and I was ready to be free.

Monogrammed on the backside were the words: "Think outside the tines."

_The End_


End file.
